


Heartbreak Warfare (You Know You Belong To Me)

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eobard and Barry were on the justice league together, Good times, Infidelity, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, canonical time travel, mentioned Iris West/Barry Allen, they had an affair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:00:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6518419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For most of his life, Barry Allen’s soul mark read Iris West. In a world where he never became the Flash, it would have always read that and always would. However, things were never that simple. </p><p>(In another world, in another time, Barry Allen would have had Iris West on his wrist until the day he sped centuries into his future.<br/>In the world where Nora Allen was murdered, Barry Allen’s soulmate never said Iris West. Instead, Eobard Thawne laid stark and black against the pale of his skin.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



 

Eobard Thawne’s soulmark came in when he was seven, while he was fast asleep. By the time he woke up, the words were already steady black. Unchanging. _Barry Allen._ His soulmate’s name was Barry Allen, and even at that moment he knew he would stop at nothing to have him. 

He was always fascinated with the concept of soulmates, but he was more so after his mark came in. The knowledge that somewhere, there was a person waiting for him who would be his. Who would be perfect, who would be made just for him.

The first time he met Doctor Barry Allen, these ideas were shattered to bits. Not that he was perfect for him; oh no. From the moment he saw his dorky grin and soft hair, he knew that he was made for him. 

And from the moment he saw the wedding band on his hand, Eobard knew he would hate him for that moment onward. That didn’t mean that he didn’t love him also. It did mean, however, that he burned with jealous anger: he was his. _His_. It was not like they were old, either; neither of them had been waiting for far too long a time. Yet for some reason Barry couldn’t have brought himself to wait any longer. And now they were here, in the middle of some science conference in Starling City, about to shake hands, and when Eobard murmured his own name—the name of the man Barry belonged to, would always belong to—all he got was a flash of guilty recognition in his eyes. Nothing else. No breathless gasps, no coquettish repetition of Eobard’s name, no rosy blush tinting his cheeks; it was nothing like all of Eobard's fantasies of finding him. 

Then: “This is my soulmate, Iris West-Allen,” and rage ran so strongly through his veins that he could have sworn his heart stopped in that moment. 

(For a moment, doubt coursed through him, but he had to be his soulmate. If the almost archaic name didn’t give him away, then the flash of guilt earlier certainly did. Barry Allen was his soulmate. He just refused to recognize that fact. And oh, how that made Eobard burn.)

Yet all he did was curve his mouth into something that might have been called a smile. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

* * *

 

Then the speed came, and Eobard had other things to preoccupy his time. Perhaps he didn’t need his _(beloved, perfect, why, why, why couldn’t he just give in and realize that they were not meant to be apart—)_ mundane soulmate, anyway. Perhaps he was meant to be far greater than Barry Allen would ever be.

* * *

 Rumor was the Flash had appeared in their time, that he was finally found again after his disappearance in the early twenty-first century.

Eobard had dreamed of lightning bolts and blurs of red since he was capable of thought. No, Barry Allen was never going to be enough for him. (He was. He was)

* * *

The Justice League was not very hard to join when the prerequisite of superpowers was already met.

The Flash was perhaps everything he ever wanted. There was no way he could deny their connection: they were almost one and the same. Both speedsters, both talented, both powerful. The Flash and his Reverse.They complimented each other perfectly. 

Then he figured out who the man was behind the mask, and oh, he should have expected this. They were too good together for it be anything else. But—perhaps Barry had finally realized this too. 

They were meant to be, after all.

He tore off his mask and pushed him up against the wall. For once, he found out what it was like to have Barry Allen pliant beneath him.

It felt like rapture.

* * *

 

Then: “Eobard, we can’t be doing this.”

He kissed him to shut him up.

“I’m married.”

“I _know_.” That didn’t mean that he cared.

“She’s my soulmate.”

He could have snarled. “ _I’m_ your soulmate.” His fingertips dug into his skin, bruising, leaving a mark. “Don’t lie to me.”

Barry keened, then stayed blissfully silent.

* * *

 

He liked to lay his hands on Barry’s mark when they fucked, liked to kiss it; liked to remind him who he belonged to, remind him how no matter what he would never be rid of him. He thought, sometimes, that there was no time when he loved him more than when he was spread out underneath him, breathless, finally unable to deny their bond, unable to deny how this was where he belonged. 

There were other days, when Barry pulled his fingers off of the place where Eobard’s name lay on his skin, when he refused to meet his eyes, when Barry moans were tinged with self-loathing, where Eobard swore there was no time when he hated him more.

(That was a lie. The worst time was afterwords, when Barry didn’t look at him, didn’t even touch him. When Barry always said “Never again,” and some part of him always seized with the thought of that being true.)

* * *

 He left the Justice League.

Villainy was much better for heartbreak.

(Still, Barry met with him. After the plans were thwarted and Eobard was defeated, he came to him. Battered and slightly bruised, he’d sink to his knees in front of him, and Eobard would whisper a mixture of endless praise and endless hatred as he turned bruises into hickeys.) 

* * *

He hated him. He loved him.

Did it even matter at this point? All that mattered were the marks on their skin and the band on Barry’s left hand.

(Sometimes he dreamed of killing Iris before Barry chose her over him. But timelines were fickle, and Iris West-Allen, as much as he despised her, had done some great things.)

(Other days, when the pain seemed too hard to bear, he dreamed of killing Barry himself. Of ripping his heart out with his bare hands, tearing him apart with something as intimate as a kiss.)

* * *

 

Eventually, Barry stopped coming to him. Their fights no longer ended with bruising kisses, tangled beneath sheets. He was met with gazes that seemed to pass right through him, and Barry Allen went home to his wife. 

“She was my soulmate long before you were, Thawne. I had her name on my skin for twenty years. I can't just let that go.”

Eobard Thawne saw red.

Barry Allen would be his, or he would be no one’s. He would kill him himself, if he had to. What was that old quote, after all? _Every man must kill the thing he loves._

He ran as they fought, faster than he ever had run before, faster than he might ever run. (Barry Allen, making him great until the very end.) He focused. He calmed. The world grew fuzzy at the edges; all that mattered was the name on his skin. _Barry Allen. Barry Allen. Barry Allen._ Perhaps this had been what they were fated for. No love story, no forbidden affair, no—Barry Allen was his soulmate because he was meant to destroy him. In a way, they destroyed each other. In denying him, Barry led to his own demise. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy: In his stubbornness to accept Eobard as his soulmate, as his true soulmate, his only soulmate, he ensured it.

He opened his eyes, four hundred years in the past, hand curled around Barry Allen’s throat, and noticed his mistake. He could never kill him. How could he? He was his. Always his. Even after everything he had done, he still belonged to him; Eobard was never fond of breaking things that were his.

He faltered.

Barry Allen from his time— _his_ Barry Allen—escaped into the future again, but not before the timeline changed—slightly, but it still changed. Nora Allen was dead.

He readied himself to run back to his time. 

He didn’t move. What? He tried again, yet the speedforce, normally so natural, normally so easy to use, refused to respond. 

No. He couldn’t be stuck here, in this backwards time. He couldn’t. How could he be stuck here?

Oh Lord. His research. His research that led to him becoming the reverse Flash. His research, which was based off of _the Flash_.

 

To get back, he would need to ensure the creation of the Flash.

To get back, he would have to not destroy Barry Allen, but instead create him _._

  

* * *

 

In a different time, Barry Allen’s soulmark read Iris West for approximately five minutes.

He was nine years old when his soul mark cleared up. He was a late bloomer, his mom had said, it didn’t mean anything; but that didn’t mean that Iris hadn’t had hers for nearly six months, a curvy little _Barry Allen_ adorning her wrist. He wasn’t sure why their marks hadn’t come in at the same time: yeah, matching soul marks didn’t have to come in at the same time, but that didn't mean most people's didn't. And a part of him—alright, all of him—liked the romanticism of it, a shared moment where he could watch his and Iris’s marks clear up and know, just know _,_ that they were meant to be.

Iris’s mark cleared up on her birthday, all the way back in December. When it happened, she had kissed him on the cheek, and it had been the best day of his life.

Well, best day up until now. It was one in the morning, but he didn’t care. His skin burned, his heart raced. Finally, finally, _finally._ He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again; he didn’t know if he wanted to watch it come in, or see it for the first time all at once. _Iris West,_ he could feel his heart beating in his chest. _Iris West._ A blurry gray splotch began to form on his ankle. Iris had gotten hers on her wrist, but plenty of people’s marks weren’t in the same spot, right? He couldn’t bear to shut his eyes, couldn’t bear to keep them open. The anticipation was killing him. Maybe he should’ve just tried to sleep—anything would’ve been better than just this waiting, honestly. The shapes on his wrist grew more distinct, in blocky letters. Hearts over the i. _Iris West._ He could almost cry. Everything was fine.

And then—it wasn’t.

Almost immediately, as if it was a cruel joke, his mark faded away again, and—what. no. That couldn’t be right. Soulmarks didn’t just fade away.

It hadn't gone white—Iris wasn’t dead—it just disappeared. It turned into a gray smear again, as if it had never existed in the first place. No, no, no—He didn’t imagine it, he didn’t, it was there, it had been there, he knew it had. She was his soulmate—except. The letters began to take shape again, far messier than they had been before.

No. No, this wasn’t right—

The first letter was an E.

The first letter was an _E_.

It wasn’t—he wasn’t—no, that couldn’t be right. Iris was his soulmate. His. She had his name on her wrist, he had to match her, he had to—(a voice in the back of his head murmured all the stories he heard about unrequited soul bonds. But that wouldn’t happen with him and Iris. They were like a fairytale. It was supposed to be like a fairytale. Why couldn’t he—Why—)

The name on his wrist was _Eobard Thawne_.

Eobard Thawne. What kind of name was Eobard? He had never heard of the name Eobard before. Maybe it was from a different language. Oh god, what if his soulmate was some sort of person who only spoke an obscure dialect of German. He didn’t know German! He didn’t want to move across the world to some country halfway across the world! He wanted to stay here, home, with Iris who should have been his soulmate—Who _was_ his soulmate; why couldn’t his actual soul mark come back?

Maybe if he rubbed at it enough, or something, it would fade into gray again, and he’d have Iris’s name again. Still, nothing happened.

Then, the water in his fishbowl began to raise in the air, and his soul mark was the least of his worries.

* * *

Nora Allen died before her son could tell her about the name on his skin.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!! I'm sorry if that didn't make any sense at the end there...I tried.
> 
> ANyway 101 thank you's to kyele who, a, dragged me into this ship, and B, helps so much with like everything I write, bless her


	2. Petrichor

Eobard breathed, stifling a cough.

Barry's original time was far different from the one Eobard came from. The smoke and grit alone was nauseating; combined with the pollution in the air it was practically unbearable. Everything was so…primitive. In his time, clean energy had been put into practice for hundreds of years. Here, there was enough chemicals and soot in the air to suffocate the global population. How the entire earth hadn’t died off already from poisoning themselves was beyond him. 

Still, he couldn’t just sit and let his lungs adjust. Something had to be done. If he stayed like this, in his own body, the time wraiths would be after him before he could finish saying _Barry Allen_. He needed to become someone else. Someone who was innocuous enough so that it wouldn’t change the time stream, but influential enough that they knew the Flash. 

For a moment, he considered Iris West. It wouldn’t be too hard; he knew all about her greatest achievements. He could recreate them nearly perfectly, and maybe, just maybe—no. He wouldn’t want to feel Barry’s hands on him, wouldn’t want to finally know what it was felt like when Barry Allen actually loved him.

(After all, it wouldn’t be him who Barry would have thought he loved. It would have been her, and Eobard would not come second to Iris West again. Not this time.)

He closed his eyes and told himself that the logistics were far too complicated. He needed an adult, preferably male. Someone who would know Barry Allen, someone he would look up to. Someone who could create him, without him even noticing.

In the end it was far too simple to choose: Harrison Wells was hardly a footnote in the history books back in his time, but he had several appearances in _The Official Biography of the Flash_. The Barry of his time, (his Barry, he would always be his Barry,)had been unbelievably fond of his work. Eobard wasn’t quite sure what he saw in it; the formulas lacked the sort of effortless beauty he had grown accustomed to. Back home, scientists were held to a higher standard than they were here. Everything was expected to be beautiful, to be perfect. Harrison Wells was perhaps as close to that as he would get in this time period, of course, but from a twenty-fourth century viewpoint his work was nearly barbaric.

Still, Harrison Wells—and his particle accelerator—created the Flash. Barry would trust him. Perhaps most importantly, however, Eobard was familiar enough with his life’s work that the timeline would remain unchanged. Above everything else, the timeline had to remain untouched. If it altered, even slightly—(Barry Allen would go without ever actually meeting him. He would marry Iris West like he always would, because he liked to play at being her soulmate despite being destined for far greater things. Maybe he’d even end up never becoming the Flash at all, despite all of Eobard’s efforts, and he would live in his idyllic little life as Iris West’s husband forever, sparing no thought for who he actually belonged to. Maybe he’d even find a way to cut out his name. There were surgeries, after all. Even in this time period.)—Eobard ran a hand along his own soul mark and thought of something else. 

* * *

 Harrison Wells and his wife died in a horrific car accident which was no accident.

“Gideon, show me the future.” Eobard Thawne began to work.

* * *

 

It was raining. Not the pleasant sort of rain where the sky was more blue than gray, not the sort of rain that clung to flower petals, no, this was a thunderstorm. He wasn’t afraid. Speedsters had no reason to fear lightning. 

Even when he was young, he loved the rain.

(Barry Allen, on the other hand, trying desperately to sleep in a house that wasn’t his, kept one hand on his soul mark and the other underneath his pillow, wishing more than anything that the storm would stop.)

* * *

 

Eobard watched him, sometimes. Twenty-fifth century technology came in handy, those nights. Those nights where he woke up after dreaming of chrome and glass, of matching soul marks and his Barry. The nights where he woke up, grabbing at his sheets out of frustration, knowing there was nothing for him in the future if the future Barry wouldn’t have him. The nights where he knew there was nothing for him here, either. 

Some days, he went through frame-by-frame, attempting to find Barry’s soul mark on his skin, though why he wasn’t exactly sure. Validation, perhaps. So he could know that their bond wasn’t unrequited, that Barry Allen belonged to him and no one else. He just needed, sometimes, to remind himself that someone, somewhere, existed only for him. He needed to know he was not made to be alone. 

He saw the mark, once or twice. All from awkward angles, and blurred, but it was enough to see that it wasn’t _Iris West_ on Barry's skin. It was enough to see the curving script of Eobard's own handwriting.

It was enough to know that Barry Allen belonged to him. (Enough to know that he had been lying, when he said that he had ever belonged to someone else.)

* * *

 

Barry tried to keep his mark hidden for as long as possible. He didn’t want to know what Joe would think. Even his dad didn’t really believe him when he said that it had changed, though he accepted his soulmate was someone named Eobard Thawne, and not Iris.

“There are plenty of Barry Allens out there, kiddo,” his dad had said. “Iris’s soulmate is probably one of those boys.”

But what if it wasn’t? He had her name on his skin. It didn’t matter that it had been only for a couple of minutes. That meant he was hers, right? And then it changed.

“A lot of things happened that night, Barry. You were probably just confused.” 

Barry wasn’t confused. He knew what happened. He almost said that. Almost. But.

“And whoever this Eobard Thawne is? I’m certain they’re the luckiest person in the world.”

Oh. His skin itched suddenly; he shifted uncomfortably. He had, for the most part, been ignoring the new name on his skin. He was so stuck on the idea that it the name was wrong, that it wasn’t Iris, that he forgot to remember that there was an actual person who belonged to him. It wasn’t like Barry’s wrist had been wiped clear. Some person out there had the name Barry Allen across their skin, and hoped that he would love them. 

He felt, suddenly, selfish. Eobard Thawne, after all, wanted a soulmate too. Yet here was Barry, pining over someone who wasn’t even his. 

Eobard wasn’t Iris, but Barry was certain they’d be perfect. They had to be, after all. That was how soul mates worked.

* * *

Iris and Joe found out in the summer. Barry should have told them earlier, he knew he should have, but he didn’t. He couldn’t find the courage for it. Because if Joe and Iris knew that Iris wasn’t his soulmate, well. What reason would they have for keeping Barry with them?

So Barry kept his mark hidden. Until the first day of spring.

It had been a terrible winter that year; boatloads of snow on top of more snow on top of more snow. Nobody was without sweaters and coats and long sleeves, even inside. Central City was used to cold winters, sure, but not like this. Joe had thrown boiling water into the air, and it had all evaporated before it could land. Barry and Iris were amazed, but that didn’t mean that the eventual end of winter hadn't been celebrated all of their might.

On the first day the temperature rose above sixty, Barry pulled out the short sleeves again. He hadn’t even had his soul mark for a year, yet. He wasn’t used to hiding it actively, the cold had done that for him. But now that it was spring…

He had bounded downstairs in a show of youthful exuberance. He was dressed in his favorite t-shirt and shorts, and he had completely forgotten about the name on his wrist. He beamed when he waved good morning to Joe, but Joe hadn’t smiled back. 

That was when Barry realized his soul mark was out for all to see. “Um,” he said, and clutched his wrist to his chest, but it was too late.

“Barry,” Joe said, slow and deliberate but not necessarily mean. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Barry swallowed, but nodded. 

“Listen, Barry. I don’t care who your soulmate is. It’s not going to change the fact that I’m going to take care of you, and you should know that,” he said. “What I do care about is the fact that you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Barry blurted, before he could stop himself. “Iris _was_ my soulmate. She just isn’t anymore.”

“Barry,” Joe said, the look in his eye turning from disappointment to concern. “Soul marks don’t just change, Barry. That’s the entire point of them. They’re forever. Iris’s soulmate is a Barry Allen, but it’s not you.”

“But I had her name,” he insisted. “I did!”

“Barry, you got your soul mark on the day your mother died. You were in shock, you saw things that weren’t there.”

“I had Iris’s name.”

“Barry, just because your soulmate isn’t Iris doesn’t mean we don’t care about you. However, you need to stop holding onto this idea that she’s your soulmate. It’s not healthy, Barry.”

“I know that she’s not anymore,” Barry said, “but Iris was my soulmate.”

“I’m not Barry’s soulmate?” Iris said, at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed. 

Joe sighed, running a hand down his face. “No, baby, you’re not. That doesn’t mean there’s not another Barry Allen out there waiting for you—”

“There’s not,” she said.

Joe went quiet. “What.” 

She finished walking down the stairs, and showed him her wrist—it was blank. 

“I don’t understand,” Joe said, running his hand over her skin as if her name was hiding underneath it. “This isn't possible.”

“It just disappeared one day,” Iris said,“and then I woke up, this was here.” She lifted up the hem of her t-shirt, just enough to see the words _Edward Thawne_ written across her side. 

Joe stared, wide eyed and speechless. He’d seen Iris’s mark come in, Barry knew. They all had seen it come in, because it happened at Iris’s birthday party, in broad daylight. They had watched as first a gray smear formed, and then took shape, and when it said _Barry Allen_ , Iris had kissed Barry on the cheek. “This doesn’t make any sense,” Joe said, dumbstruck. “Marks don’t just—they don’t just change. It’s fate.”

“Maybe, sometimes, fate makes mistakes.” Iris shrugged, as if it were just that easy. She rolled down her sleeves, and then turned to the kitchen to go eat breakfast. “Now come on. You guys promised me we could go to the mall today.”

_Maybe, sometimes, fate makes mistakes._ He fought the urge to scratch at his wrist. How many times had he attempted to tell himself the same thing, earlier? Fate could make mistakes, so therefore he was meant to be with Iris? Well, here was Iris, telling him that it wasn’t his new name that was the mistake. It was the old one. _Maybe fate makes mistakes,_ he thought, and for once he tried to imagine this Eobard Thawne, and what they’d be like. _Maybe fate makes mistakes, and then it fixes them._

_This Eobard Thawne? I'm certain they're the luckiest person in the world._ Maybe it wouldn't be too bad after all.

That night, Barry dreamed about rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so....um....this has been more than a year....i apologize for that, truly. 
> 
> Shoutout to LaGasp, though, who A, never gave up on this fic, and B, wrote the most amazing comment for me the other day, bless

**Author's Note:**

> title is from this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGEdukHtTsc


End file.
